


This One Time Upon The Earth

by LoneChestnutTree



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse), Resident Evil - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Self-Destruction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-06-20 02:47:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15524388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoneChestnutTree/pseuds/LoneChestnutTree
Summary: Weeks after New York, weeks of isolation and guilt, epiphanies should be the last thing on Leon Kennedy's mind. That is, until, a certain unannounced visitor knocks on his door and sits with him through the darkness.





	1. And we will all keep still.

**Author's Note:**

> I wanna start this off by thanking you for clicking!
> 
> It has been raining on and off here for almost two months, and with that rain, came a weird sort of melancholy that fits right in with the tone I went with this story. I wanted to capture how when It rains, the world feels like it stops functioning for a few hours, like suddenly everything feels....unreal somehow. I hope it shows!
> 
> The title (and a few lines here and there) was taken from Pablo Neruda's poem called, 'Keeping Quiet' When I first fully 'felt' that piece, I knew I just had to write something based off of it. 
> 
>  
> 
> Enough chit-chat, I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Un-BETA'D
> 
> (The update sched will probably be irregular so y'all just have to keep an eye out on this.)

 

The sound of rain pelting the window wakes him. His blanket felt damp on his chest, he groans and rips it away. His room is dark, just the way he left it.

He coughs, dry.  
He runs a palm on his face, drier.

Slowly, infinitely, he rolls over.  
He bumps his head on the corner of the nightstand. It was hollow and faint, even more so against the sound of rain outside. But to Leon, it echoed in his head, a tunneling bang—

Like a gun.  
Shooting.  
Gunshots.

He closes his eyes, swallowing around a lump in his throat. And one by one, flashes of burning rubble, the sound of startled shouts, and the charred, sickly, smell of gore floods his senses. He wills his eyes open, the ceiling above was just that. A ceiling. Tan, and ordinary. But to Leon, at that moment, it was the most interesting thing in the world, he stares at it and uses it to reel himself away—away from what always happens. He grips the sheets and pushes himself off the bed. Outside, the rain continued to pour, gray and lifeless, but Leon knew better, he knew that when everything seems to be dead, then everything was alive.

He turns to look at the window for the last time before straightening up despite of his leg’s protests.

 _‘At least the weather is good,’_ he thinks dimly to himself.

Every room in his apartment was dark—there’s a metaphor there, but instead he just huffs and prepares the kettle. A kettle for what? Coffee? Tea? That's a first. In the past few days, he would just pour whiskey in whatever mug or glass he washed the night prior, he would pour and drink until the fuzziness of sleep leaves him. Maybe today, he would do something new. Or maybe it has just gotten to the point where his throat was starting to become scratchy, and the feel of whiskey travelling his system felt more like sandpaper than salvation.

It's gotten worse since New York. Arias. The Virus— _his hand inched towards the boiling_ _kettle_ —Rooftops. Rebecca— _closer_ —Sunrises. Redfield— _too close!_  
Pain shoots up from the tips of his fingers to the nerves of his hand, and for the first time today, his mind tears itself away from ‘it’. He hisses through his teeth and runs his hand under a cold tap. "Great," he says, voice blanketed by the steady pour of rain outside.

He walks back and picks up the kettle, and if a lesson was learned earlier when he burned himself, he pays it no mind as he handles it with the same carelessness as he did earlier. He pours the hot water into a mug he left on the counter last night; before picking out a teabag he keeps in a cupboard above the stove, Apple Blossom Tea.

Distractedly, he began fixing his breakfast, an opened but uneaten cereal bar, and a hot mug of tea, pointedly not his usual alcohol and convenience store lasagna. If he was a weaker, more conceited man, he would’ve reported this to Hunnigan and hoped it would at least ease her from middling with his everyday life. He sits, picking up the mug from its rim, recklessly unbothered if the ruby liquid inside spills or not, he spares half a thought to just drink it and hope his mouth doesn’t suffer 2nd degree burns too much.

But that’s not to say he wasn’t aware of the aches that litters his body nowadays, the bruise on his side from Arias still hasn’t healed yet, he would look at it sometimes and stop a grimace on his face, the bruise was a tender, battered, yellow, still accented with streaks of purple on the edges. He would consider it a small victory, because he knows it could’ve been a hell of a lot worse.

He continued to sit on the counter, on a chair facing the front door.  
But then, he narrows his eyes, unsure if he heard it correctly. But beneath the white noise that was the rain, it was dampened, nearly inexistent if you didn’t know how to pick out certain sounds: _heavy boots against_ _paper thin wood._

There wasn’t enough time to prepare from the inevitable; before the bright, yellow, light from the building’s hallway that seeped from the bottom slit of the door was covered by a man’s form that completely shadows it a second later.

He holds his breath. A crescendo builds,  
A moment.  
Followed by a sharp knock, all wood and bones.

Clenching his fist, he fights off a shot of nausea that made his wrist feel like jelly. He wants to melt down on the carpeted floor, or drape over the worn couch like a silk sheet. Standing up, he feels lightheaded; he white knuckles the back of the chair with one hand as his other hand wraps around the side of his waist like a girdle.

He walks slowly toward it, and behind him, he worries for his full mug turning cold, behind him, he worries about his unmade bed, and the rain, the overflowing gutter, the overhanging clouds. Everything felt cold.

Stalling would only prove to be useless, he can feel who it was from the other side; boots that walked with confidence, physique that looked like it was as thick as the door itself, he hates it. Hated how seemingly nothing can prepare him from this.

He opens the door, and on the other side, _stood a man._

 


	2. Wars of Gas, Wars of Fire

A part of his brain, somewhat late, convinces him this wasn’t real. A vision brought on by his lack of sleep, a ghost. Something his mind conjured from isolating in his house for weeks. But as much as he wants to—Visions. Ghosts. They don’t look like that; their expressions aren’t miniscule like that, a look of withheld concern, masked by a stoic face. He spills this man’s name from his tongue at the last second, “Chris,” he says, feigning surprise, even when his body told him to slam the door and forget this ever happened, “What are you doing here?” he asks.

It wasn’t Leon’s brightest moment, not everything has to have answers, not everyone does things for a purpose, he has an inkling why Chris was here, but it does not to mean he has to like it. Chris’ jaw works and he lets out an answering grunt, “Claire and Sherry asked me to check on you.” _Bull_ _fucking shit._ He knew Claire, she would drive the hours it will take to get here just to check up on him herself, and she might even bring Sherry along with her. It may be a collaborated idea, but Chris could at least stop treating him like someone he could spin. Leon was about to argue, was about to tell him to fuck off and take his concern with him, but then, hadn’t Chris drove the hours it took to get here himself? The agent was all sorts of bad at the moment, but he still hasn’t lost his sense of kindness for other people. (That, and the fact that the weather was as fucked up as he was right now.) 

 

“Come in.” He gives in, letting Chris pass by him to dry off his boots on the welcome mat. The man wore an olive corduroy jacket, to which he took off to reveal a worn out looking printed tee, It contrasted Leon’s pajama bottoms and gray, sleep shirt, but still remained on the same side of comfortable. Leon opens the overhead light as Chris unexpectedly sets down a big grocery bag on his counter, right next to his now lukewarm cup of tea, “What’s in those?” he says, walking to pick up the mug to rinse it out on the sink, the counter now between, “Breakfast.” Chris just says, as if Leon did not needed to question him, “I’ve already had breakfast.” His unwillingness to be caught vulnerable has put him in a few questionable situations in the past, and he’d gladly do it again if it meant not looking like the lesser person. Chris looks at him before his eyes landed on the uneaten cereal bar, he hums before turning back at the stuff he brought over, “Cereal bars and tea,” he began, taking out a carton of eggs followed by a bundle of spring onions, “I don’t know about you but I don’t think that’s fit for a grown man.” Leon wanted to sneer, but he knows it’ll just add to the petulant child image he’s accidentally building for himself.

 

So, instead, he pulls out something tamer, something more his style, “Did Claire and Sherry bought those for me too?” He says, dragging out their names sarcastically. He flattens his palm on the counter, and angles his body forward just a little bit. Something about it made Chris halt what he was doing, but before Leon could celebrate getting a reaction out of him, Chris continued as if nothing happened, “Yeah,” Chris turns before folding the grocery bag and tossing it on the couch behind him. 

 

Leon pushes away from the counter and leaned back on the sink behind him before letting out a deep, infuriated, sigh, he forgot how equally stubborn they both were, in the past, he could only recall a few moments where they’ve both reached a compromise, and he’s beginning to have a sneaky suspicion that this might not be one of them.

 

Chris finished stacking everything out in front of him, before a flash of uncertainty briefly crosses his features when he turned his full attention toward Leon, their height difference wasn’t all that much but the way Chris looked at him, almost towering over him, was enough to make anyone hightail out of there, but good thing Leon Kennedy wasn’t just anyone.

 

“Christ, if you’re going to be here, at least tell me the truth,” He doesn’t hide his annoyance, instead he slips in a bit more force than what was necessary, it wasn’t like he was the only one lying here, “Did Claire and Sherry really sent you here or not?”

 

That seemed to get a reaction out of Chris, enough to make the man exhale deeply and avoid his eyes, “They wanted to check on you themselves, I didn’t let them.” Leon narrows his eyes, as Chris angled his face away from him fully, “I forced them to let me go alone, because I don’t know if Claire knew you were doing it but—I knew better to see that you were just faking being well.” At last, Chris holds his gaze, “Sherry was ecstatic to find out that you were taking care of yourself again, and I didn’t had the heart to tell her I thought it was bullshit so I came to see for myself.” 

 

He didn’t need a fucking nanny, or a therapist, or—or someone that was so in touch with their emotions that expressing themselves seemed to be a breeze for them. Leon sets his jaw, temper simmering, “And what did you see, Redfield?” 

 

 

Chris’ eyes flicker to his face, the cereal bar between them, and lastly, the tips of Leon’s fingers that were red and sore, “That I was right.” He finished. 

 

And just like that, the tension was impalpable, Leon was in immediate defense mode, as Chris seemed to look the same, concerned but mildly annoyed. 

“Look, man—“Chris sighed. _Don’t you say it,_ a thought screeched in Leon’s mind, “I know what you’re going through,” Immediately, Leon rounds the corner of the counter and crowded into Chris’ personal space, jabbing a finger at him, “They needed my help, but I froze—I just stood there, Chris, you know how shitty that was?” 

Unsurprisingly, Chris held his place, ever the soldier, “You weren’t aware of that bomb in D.C. and those people that got infected in New York weren’t your fault.” Chris says, his steady composure tore completely as he spat out those words like it felt sharp on his tongue.

 

Something that screamed inside him, something that still held unto whatever never-ending hope there is, heard what Chris said. And it rendered him thoughtless. His sorrows, laid out and examined, by a man who has seen the things he has seen. He shouldn’t be reassured, but yet, he was. (For the first time in weeks.) 

 

“Claire—“Chris’ voice chipped, but it didn’t changed his expression, “Claire told me she was worried, she said that we shouldn’t leave you alone for too long. She was afraid you might—“Chris lurched forward before cutting himself off, a look of surprise on his face, but he did not need to continue. Leon knew what he was trying to say. 

 

“Chris,” he spat, abrupt and venomous, voice shaking, but frustrated tears doesn’t spill from his eyes, only because he doesn’t let it, “You should know, better than most people that—“ Leon took a step back, but his gaze was still steady, unwavering, “I want nothing to do with death.” He gritted.

 

Seemingly, something Leon wasn’t expecting, Chris silences himself, he only looks at Leon for a second too long before he finally nods, clearing his throat, “I know that. Trust me.”

 

“Tell them that for me.” Leon manages to reply, arms crossed while he ignored the beginning of a now familiar, dull pain on his side, “After,” Chris says softly, “After what?” Leon raised an eyebrow.

“After this,” Chris gestured around the kitchen, as Leon forgot that he was about to prepare breakfast just before their argument.

 

The vagueness of him made Leon wonder if he was talking about just breakfast, or the whole day entirely, how long was he even planning to stay? 

“Okay,” Leon finally relents, before scrubbing a hand over his face, “I’m going to take a shower.” He says briefly, turning around to walk toward the bedroom to grab a fresh towel, but before he could disappear unto the hallway, he turns toward Chris one last time, “Don’t think we’re on good terms, Redfield,” he says, “I’m still going to find a way to kick you out and leave me alone.” 

 

Chris snorts, opening a pack of quick-cook chowder, his back turned towards him, “Try me.” He says, turning his head a fraction so only the side of his smiling face was visible.

 

And again—Leon closes his eyes and reminds himself to breathe, Chris smiling at him, the color of sunrise around them as they descended away. He believed then that he could escape what turmoil he was in, but little did he knew that coming back to his old apartment just made it worse. _Too close,_ he thinks, as he breathed through his nose. And before Chris could figure out that something was wrong, Leon rolls his shoulder once and walks off. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've made a few minor changes to the remaining chapters a bit. I hope I didn't accidentally opened a plot hole, oops. 
> 
> (Thanks for reading ♡)


	3. In A Sudden Uneasiness

  
He rarely uses the kitchen, so it was quite different for him to hear movement around it as he showered. He walks out, toweling his hair, wearing the same clothes as before, as Chris busied himself with frying sausages in the stove. Judging by the size of the bag earlier; Chris probably went a bit overboard, but it only just occurred to him now that maybe a mountain of scrambled eggs, a big plate of different deli meats, and two full-sized bowls of potato chowder was fit for an entire family, and not just two people, “This’ll be done just a bit,” Chris says over the sound of sausages sizzling. Leon can’t deny it though, the aroma of everything mixed together was almost divine. His stomach growls despite himself, just in time for Chris to turn off the stove and scoop the sausages along on the crowded plate.

Leon reaches out to grab the bowls of chowder before the other man swats his hand away, “No, you take this,” he hands him two glasses of water, eyes lingering at the tips of Leon’s fingers that were still red, Leon looks at it and stiffens, “It was an accident,” he says, confused as to why he had an urge to defend himself, “I know.” Chris nods at him before shooing him off to sit at the dining table and wait.

And one-by-one, Chris sets the plates down on the table. Something about how calm Chris was about this made Leon shift on his seat as he eyed the spread in front of him warily, unsure what to make of all this.

But there, in the rain, in the silence, Chris sits across from him and urges for him to dig in. The window stretched across from them, a view of the world; and outside, as everything is seemingly battered sideways by the wind and rain were the tall buildings that framed his apartment, shades of blue all around, from the pale blue sky to the much darker ones that painted the entire city.  
Leon sits there, unmoving in the sudden uneasiness, the ratio of the table and the window was in perfect symmetry, something purely on accident, and something Leon has never noticed until now. He breathes deeply, before letting it out as he picked up his utensils and started eating, “This all could feed an entire group of people,” he stated, nodding at the several plates between them.

Chris looks at him once, only briefly, before going back to his plate. They’ve hit a common ground now, with the other man cooking up an entire breakfast course for them both, but Leon cannot help but wonder, an itch on the tip of his tongue, “So, does this mean you actually bought all this when you got here?” he asks, mid-chew, it was a calculated effort to sound nonchalant, like the thought of Chris purposely going aisle to aisle so early in the morning for him wasn’t bothering him in the slightest. “Wait,” Chris says, wiping the corners of his mouth with his thumb and forefinger, “Let me get this straight, me battling B.O.W.s almost regularly is normal, but me going grocery shopping suddenly throws you in for a loop?” He has a point, but Leon wasn’t about to let him have this, “Don’t you hotshot captains have people that do stuff like that for you?” he waves a fork vaguely, knowing how it irks Chris when someone questions him this way, Leon didn’t had a reason to be a dick, he knows that, but maybe this was him trying to push Chris’ buttons again, another effort to make the man furious enough to leave his apartment and never look back. It has worked wonders for him in the past.

Not in this particular situation though, because Chris rolls his eyes at him, a look that feels out of place on his usually serious face, “I know what you’re doing and don’t think for a second that I’m going to fall for it.” Leon ticks his finger on the surface of the table before smoothing his palm over it, a sudden, startled, bitterness almost seeped from his voice when he opens his mouth again, “It was worth a try,” he says, gruff, “You aren’t going to get rid of me so stop trying.” Chris says easily, like those words didn’t almost choked Leon with dread.

Like that, the uneasiness from before thickens, and the only movement that was left was the curtain that drifted lazily, almost enchantingly, a sheet of dark, purple-blue, Leon switches from his eggs to the still hot bowl of chowder to his right, across from him, Chris sighed, if that was him already giving up then great, spectacular. Leon does not have to go through the painful task of chasing him away, he could still salvage his day and live it in the way he was used to.  
“After Kijuju,” The other man began, cutting through the rain, making Leon halt what he was thinking about, “I became distant, I felt a certain hatred for the world, I felt as if—“ He took a deep breath, steadying himself, “The world never cherished us, not the way we have gone to extreme lengths just to protect it. And I spent a long time wondering if that was all that was left.” Then, Chris sobers, looking at him with a thread of conviction; this was something he was determined to get across, “I hated the way I felt so I accepted help and changed without forgetting what darkness the world had in stored.” _Duties, responsibilities, but what_ _about solitude?_ Leon wanted to say, but he hesitates, what happened with him, what mistakes he made and what threats he overlooked, to him, It wasn’t worthy of solitude, what he was doing to himself now was punishment. Solitude was reserved only for people with a good relationship with heroism.

But nonetheless, he nods, acknowledging what Chris just said, knowing deep inside him that he can never shake off the satisfaction of doing what was right, even if his version of right was often warped and frayed, he has been involved in this fight too long to leave now. But the thought of that now, in his unclear mindset was in all ways unappealing, “But I can’t go to the field like this, I’d be erratic, unfocused,” _–maybe even_ _dangerous,_ “I’d be caught off guard every minute.” Leon says, he has never thought of it this way, he just assumed his agent life was screeching to a bitter halt. “I didn’t say you have to come back right now.” Chris says while chewing, looking at him, “My point is, the world isn’t all ugliness.”

Leon’s gaze jumps to the man across from him, searching for something behind those words, some sort of complex meaning; before he forced himself to focus on the food in front of him, he transfers a slice of ham to his plate, and with all the false cheerfulness he could muster, he opens his mouth, without much thinking and says, “How about this food though? Compliments to the chef.” Chris stared at him, before his shoulder shook as he chuckled into the glass he was drinking. Leon and heroics may have a rocky relationship, but him and repression work just fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I was working on this fic, I wanted it to have only one, continous, scene, considering this really wasn't a full blast adventure fic where they get to fight baddies left and right. I wanted it to be just them, I'm reserving the 'Save Humanity' trope for when I'm ready to tackle on a big fish like that. 
> 
> But for now, let's grant these boys a bit of stillness. 
> 
> Comments and Kudos are greatly appreciated. ^.^ ♡


	4. Without doing a thing

The rain was heavier, assaulting the windows continuously; he doesn’t have to look outside to know that the street was flooded already. _Perks of living in the shit side of town,_ he guesses. Cooped up inside here felt like they were being veiled from the outside world, everything past it wasn’t their concern anymore. Far off, with the looping barrage of sounds outside, like hundreds of marbles bouncing on a hardwood floor weaved itself in their companionable silence as they washed the plates together. But sometimes, a grumbling roll of thunder that ends with a loud clap startles him, making Chris keep him on the corner of his eye as he soaped the plates from today and the night before.

 

 

Leon bristles; as his thoughts whirred but his face remained impassive, just how long was Chris planning to stay? Now that breakfast was done, there wasn’t any reason to stick around anymore. Not that Chris was starting to impose, it’s just that he’s had enough proof since the first few minutes he saw Leon that he was right all along. 

 

Maybe there was something here that Leon missed, he casts his mind back to the concern on Chris’ face from earlier, if there was a hint of falseness in it, Leon would’ve sensed it by now. He’s thinking it— _catastrophizing it,_ he’s come to steel himself from the worst, not from other people, but from himself.  By the time he finished drying off the plates, he only sensed belatedly that Chris wasn’t behind him anymore, the man was standing back at the table, just looking out the window. Leon sees him and narrows his eyes, throwing the drying towel behind him carelessly, the man’s shoulders were tight, singing with tension, and Leon didn’t needed to look at him directly to know that his jaw was set with it too, had there been a global crisis Chris was preparing himself to tell Leon about? 

No, it couldn’t be. If there was something that demanded his attention on that big of a scale, Chris would’ve told him the first few minutes he came in, not just after cooking for him, or eating with him thoughtfully. 

Leon stood next to him, careful not to break what silence the man has built for himself, Leon follows Chris’ gaze outside, to nowhere, If Chris sensed he was there, he doesn’t show it, he just closes his eyes and exhales, and a tiny bit of Leon thinks, that maybe coming here was for Chris too, to seek some peace and quiet—some form of solitude in the rain. 

 

But then, something a little familiar happens, Chris tears his eyes away from the window to look at Leon directly, his eyes solemn, “I thought, coming here, It would’ve been easy enough to inspire you to come back.” _But it_ _wasn’t,_ Leon gently thinks, _then what made it_ _hard?_

“But then I remember the times Claire would do the same thing for me, she would come to my place, we would cook, and she would only talk when she feels like I was ready to, It took a long time but it helped. A lot.” Leon stood, unable to reply as something he watched in slow-motion bridges itself in his thoughts, Chris was doing this for Leon now, because it had helped him. Chris was— _can Leon even_ _call it that without it making his skin crawl_ —helping him, as Claire did so once. It shouldn’t have sounded as a big of a deal as it actually was, but Claire did it for Chris because well, simply, Chris was blood. Leon wasn’t. If anything, Claire was the reason they only knew of each other. 

In the vast questions of things Leon wanted to say, it brings him back to his initial thought earlier, _Claire would drive the hours it took to get here. But she didn’t because Chris did._ That wires something in his mind, a small, easy to ignore fuse.  

 

Leon only managed to nod, a tight feeling settled in his chest that climb toward the back of his throat, there was something here that he feels like he overlooked, Chris cares, of course he does, but Leon, he doesn’t know where he stands anymore, in the beginning, he only accepted because it was convenient, because the man was already there on his doorstep. But now, he needs to talk—he wants—he needs— 

 

He knows what he needs, but what is it that he wants? 

Leon, with knowing how his mind works, he began cancelling out what he doesn’t want instead, and just then all the things people have said to him, have suggested that he tries, slowly comes back piece by piece. 

Awkward sympathetic words, False empathy, people who have never seen the things he has, but still telling him it was going to be alright, people who have never watched their friends, their comrades die in the most twisted, undignified, ways.  But Chris has, hasn’t he? Chris has seen the darkest, the vilest, and the worst. And still he stood. Here: with Leon, feeling regretful, sorrowful, (And looking so breathtaking) in his living room, battling his demons with him. 

 

“Forget what I said earlier, if you want,” Chris said, attention back toward the window, “Don’t let anyone force you to come back if you’re not ready.” He says quietly, hands twined behind him. 

 

“Fine.” Leon says, “What is?” Chris asks, “Fine, Redfield, you can stay.” Leon threw his hand up, pausing as if he needed to think it over again, even when his heart was beating steadily, without hesitance. ( _The oldest traitor_.) Chris looks at him, his mouth twinges a bit, the beginning of a smile, and somehow, Leon realizes his first mistake, he was about to let this man help him, the man who reminds him of new mornings even when the only thing he wants to do was to be still in the night. “Good—that’s good.” Chris says softly, he runs a hand through his hair and down his arms as if he suddenly doesn’t know where to place them. 

Leon can only stand there, already helpless, as the only thing he can seemingly do was to call it as he sees it; _this man was trouble._ He convinces himself of it as he remembers the way the man’s cheeks dimples ever so slightly when he smiles, or the way he always has an air of humble power around him. Leon bit his lip, thinking, he crosses his arms before he can help himself, there wasn’t any hurry, no one was forcing his hand right now, almost seems like they have all the time in the world. But, he knows that wasn’t true, the world needed them. Maybe not in this moment, but in the long run, it does. They can’t hide in the rain forever (As much as he wants to.) so, he nods and stays, without doing a thing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter is up next! I hope it beautifully closes this series like how I envisioned it to!
> 
> (I hope y'all are ready for the CHEESE next chapter, but don't worry, It's more of a mellow, creamy, cheese, not sharp and acidic...I hope.)
> 
> Chris and Leon in this type of dynamic is so fun to write, and I think I'll miss them in this mindset. ♡


	5. Victories without survivors

Thunder rolled again, as Leon Kennedy and Chris Redfield stood, watching as the weather settled into a drizzle before them, it’s been a few minutes since one of them talked, but for Leon, it was for the best, he took that time to organize his thoughts, a sense wryness of what comes in store when you let this man into your life without complications or ugly pride. Chris next to him, still as if he was not there at all. It makes Leon think and compare, if in another scenario, if Claire were here instead, would they watch a movie? Would they talk or plan? Would he have to keep up that faux ‘healing’ front? Or will Claire see right through him like Chris did? 

 

Questions, questions, before Leon clears his throat, remembering a tale his grandmother used to tell him on stormy days like these.

“My—“ he began before snorting, arms crossed as he remembered, “Nana,” he says, “She would tell me, convince me actually, about a story about the rain. She would say that every drop of rain was intricate, handmaid by cloud keepers. She said that those keepers would breathe in the sadness of the world, and that they store them in little jars hidden in the sky. And sometimes—“ he smiled to himself, nostalgic, “When the jars were too many in the in the sky, the keepers would break a few, and it would turn into rain. Every drop, she would say, every drop was someone’s personal sorrow, which is why when it rains, everything turns gray and cold.” Except, Leon stops and doesn’t continue the full story, _‘So when it rains and two lost souls decide to seek shelter away from it, them, and only them, could experience true comfort in each other.’_ His grandmother would finish, the sound of her voice would mingle with the thunder and lightning, a smooth pebble against a roaring wave.

 

Just then, his mind suddenly supplies him with something awful, and it was as if he was back there again—the morgue, the smell of gathering dust and rusted metal, his every footstep that felt like his last as he walked across the dirty tiled floor toward his destination. He doesn’t remember how or when, or who fucked up and allowed him to enter that morgue unrestricted but above all, he knew the reason why; It shouldn’t have been those people, if anyone were to die, It shouldn’t have been his team. Surrounded by body bags and death, Leon knew that was what he deserved for messing up. That was his punishment.

 

 _‘I never thought my life would turn out this way_.’

 

He allows himself to close his eyes only slightly, suddenly aware of the fact that Chris was staring at him with unguarded concern. 

 

He knew that one of these days that, that memory was bound to catch up on him, but wasn’t it such a coincidence that it happened in front of the man that Leon was trying to open up to, his throat constricts and he sets his palms down on the table, shoulders hunched and head bended low, quietly thankful for his hair that managed to cover his entire, pained, expression. Chris’ boots thudded on the floor, inching just a bit closer to him, “I’m fine,” Leon managed to breathe out, but then he has always been good at lying, wasn’t he?

“Talk. When you’re ready,” Chris nudges his elbow with Leon’s, a gesture that the agent immediately fixated on, patient, calming, not forceful, far from it.  Tears threatened to pool in his eyes, a stray catching on his left eyelash like crystals, he doesn’t cry fully, only because, as stubborn as he is, he still doesn’t let it.

“I’m fine,” he says again, convincing himself of it this time, “No talking, not this time.” He says.

 Chris sets a warm hand on his shoulder and nods. “Not made of stone,” Leon chuckled wetly, wiping his eyes on the back of his hand, “Won’t tell a soul, promise.” Chris looked at him, smiling at him with warmth in his eyes that Leon was sure would make even the sturdiest man crumble.

 

“You’re a dumbass for coming here, you know that?” Leon finally flips his hair the way it was before, a bit unruffled, but he is well aware that it probably suits his entire look right now.

“Hunnigan told that to me too,” Chris says. _Hunnigan?_ For a few terrifying seconds, another wall slowly rises between both men, but again, Leon knew better, If this was all orchestrated by his organization all along, Chris wouldn’t pull that on him this late. _Would he?_

 

“I know what you’re thinking, and no, we’re not conspiring against you. I only asked her for some, uh, tips, on how to approach this. She told me that you could either purposely anger me or kick me out entirely, which is something, because you actually tried both of those on me, didn’t you?” Chris’ smile was wide and teasing; _the softest cotton, the smoothest silk._

 

Leon straightens once again, looking directly at Chris, as he purges out all doubt from his thoughts, “Why do I even bother hiding things from you,” he sighed, only now realizing that Chris’ hand from before was still there, warm and steady on his shoulder—oops—but Chris doesn’t falter, still looking at him with the same concern and patience that painted his face earlier. It almost made Leon laugh to realize, that Chris could very well much bottle his feelings, could wipe the emotions from his face if he wanted to but somehow, he isn’t doing that right now.   _It’s not like he was the only one lying here._ Leon wants to grant himself this tiny bit of kindness, a selfish part in him wants to speak out, but he doesn’t get that chance when Chris swallows, looking at where his thumb crosses the space from Leon’s clothed shoulder to the skin of his neck, he only allows himself to caress his thumb once before abruptly pulling away, an apology already in his expression. “Sorry, I—“ Before he could end his sentence, Leon grabs Chris’ hand again and puts it on his cheek, cupping the side of his jaw. “Commit to it, Redfield,” Leon joked, as Chris’ eyes startles, In front of him, the man who was nothing but the purest form of incandescence, throws his head back, sudden, unguarded, and full on laughs. Leon smiles at him, breathless. _He wants—he needs—._

 

Chris stops and calms, and only settles into a content sigh as he works his hand from the side of Leon’s face to the back of his neck, to the nape and upward, “Can I?” he asks, quiet against the rain. Leon slowly nods as Chris splays his hand, fingers catching on Leon’s golden hair, he slowly moves his palm toward the crown of his head, curling his fingers in Leon’s hair gently, “I’ve always wanted to do that,” he confesses, more electrifying than the thunder. Unable to reply, Leon hums slowly, there was a question floating inside his head, fighting for his attention against the sudden heated contact which was Chris playing with his hair softly. He wants to analyze this further, he wants to pinpoint exactly when and where his own body decided to yearn for the man like a flower depraved of its sun. (Alone, in his hotel room, after China.)

 

Every thought was left on-hold as Chris’ weight, little-by-little, presses solidly against Leon, his firm muscles, the smell of his cologne that was more light than musky, and the rise and fall of his chest, shallow puffs of breath that fanned the side of Leon’s face. The muscles on his back jumps as Chris places a hand on his waist, kneading, if someone were to barge in and look at them now, Leon doubts if he can pull away from the other man’s grip. (Not that he wants to. Not that he would ever wish to.)  

His thoughts start to mix together, this close, he can smell the other man fully, he can feel every twinge of muscle that cords on the man’s arm whenever he moves, the hand on his hair remains steady, but it was the other on his waist that moves, snaking toward his upper back and pushing him closer to the taller man, Chris doesn’t talk, not yet, almost like he was waiting for something, waiting for Leon. “Believe it or not, I wasn’t planning for this when I got here,” Chris laughs against his neck, making the hairs of his arms stand,  and before Leon could do anything, the man pulls away from him fully.

 

Leon stands there and tries to get his bearings together, already, he tries, and ultimately fails in trying to think of the ways he could excuse himself.

 

Time seemed to pass them by agonizingly slow, Leon can still feel the heat from where the man’s hand was in his hair just moments ago, he can still feel the broad chest that was aligned with his, heaving, synced with the thundering beats of Leon’s heart. The man’s mind muddled and slowed, as all he could do was to resort to the only thing he can think of, and for someone who was so afraid of being deceived, he sure does it a lot. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” He says casually, innocently, but a big part inside him hopes Chris catches on. However, if he, for a horrifying moment, decides to leave, that would be that. There will never be a chance like this anymore, and for a brief moment, like a lightning flash, Chris’ jaw sets and he straightens up, “You can’t do that forever.” He said, an imitation of disappointment, Leon would have fell for it if it wasn’t for the fact that the man truly was wearing his heart on his sleeve, Chris’ face revealed something else as he looked at Leon, something he could call hope, but not entirely, a strike of lightning in a vast, endless, sky.  Even then, Leon was aware he could pull off a convincing lie about this, but he casts his mind and only finds that it was not what he wanted anymore.

 

He knows he can stand there and lie and tell him it was in the heat of the moment, he can stand there too, wanting this deep inside but his face can show something entirely different; standoffish, cold.

 

God knows he should be a bit kinder to himself. 

 

Therefore, he lets it, and he lets himself watch as his reserve was slowly falling apart, the difference now was that he’s letting it show on his face, he lets the man see that he wants him pressed back against his body like it was before, and in an instant, Chris’ face lights up.   _Why do I even bother hiding things from you._

 

The distance he scrambled to build only lasted seconds, as he reached between him and Chris, finally bridging the gap, “Sorry, old habits.” Leon says, voice hushed and serious, keeping it short in fear of what he might reveal this early, “Where were we?” He asks instead, an apologetic smile on his face. 

 

“You’re unbelievable,” Chris chuckles, and Leon snorts before filing that in as a compliment before he took a step closer, tentatively wrapping his arms around Chris’ neck, making their foreheads touch gently.

 

All words escape him. He thinks about this one space where they don’t have to talk, instead, he reaches for Chris’ hair and caresses it, mirroring what the man did for him earlier, and the way Leon’s hands started to dart at every direction on the man’s body was more words he could express verbally. 

 

His finger trails the man’s jaw, and to him, it means patience, sweet and soft.

Or how he grips the back of the man’s neck, making Chris’ breath hitch, to him, and only him, it says, _‘Let me be yours.’_

He lets go of the man’s neck, lifting his palm to trail down from Chris’ neck to his bicep, leaving a path of heat in his wake, he squeezes once, and this time he does say something, “This will be tough.” He whispers, as Chris nods against his forehead, both their eyes closed, “We’ll make it work.” The other man assured.

 

Without technicality, without hesitation, he kisses the man fiercely, letting all his worries and fears wash away with the feel of the man opening his mouth against his—The other man may have sensed his enthusiasm as Chris smiled as they kissed, a burst of blinding power courses through him as the man delves in deeper, captivating him. And slowly, a journey like molten lava, Chris’ calloused hands cradles his face, and to him, it was another unspoken message passed between them, something that convinced him he was worthy of solitude.

 

Beyond them, outside, water pelted the windows; the wind began to pick up. The rain had started again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, last chapter, y'all. 
> 
> I love this fic and I hope you guys did too. 
> 
> I would like to thank the rain for inspiration, Neruda for emotions, and the songs I've listened to on repeat when my thoughts (and my word document) were frustratingly blank. 
> 
> (Special shout-out to Ao3 user, Tikali for loving this fic as much as I did hhhhh ♡♡♡♡ hope you find this last chapter as something that closes this entire fic beautifully.)


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